posted online that her sister was “destroying her family over money.”
I didn’t answer.
For once, I allowed people to misunderstand me.
Sixty-two days later, I returned.
The house looked smaller than I remembered.
Dad was carrying boxes toward a rented truck.
Mom stood near the porch with swollen red eyes.
Madison sat in the passenger seat of a ten-year-old Honda.
She looked at me as though I had personally invented suffering.
“You got everything,” she said.
I met her eyes.
“No.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You got the house. Money.
